


cherry coke

by Nitzer



Series: west coast [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, American AU, Fantasizing, M/M, Pining, crush on your best friend's older brother trope, jeno and johnny are brothers au, johnny's probably like 21? 22?, kind of? mark's in high school and johnny isn't, mark grows up in korea and moves to america later au, mark's 17 here if that turns you off, milkshakes and ice cream, none of that is super important tho, ridiculous amounts of pining, some like very vaguely sexual fantasies from mark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-16 01:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19307935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nitzer/pseuds/Nitzer
Summary: Johnny is Mark's American dream--unrealistic, unobtainable and probably entirely fabricated to begin with.





	cherry coke

**Author's Note:**

> playlist for this fic: your favorite Lana del Rey song, "Nabi" by Bibi and whatever IU songs you think are sexy  
> no rating and no underage tag bc nothing happens but 17 y/o mark does vaguely fantasize about some sexual stuff involving johnny just as a head's up  
> bg info for this au bc nothing is explained in here really: mark grew up in south korea and moved to LA when he was like 11/12 and johnny and jeno are brothers and both grew up in chicago and moved to LA when jeno was like 11/12

It’s some kind of Lana del Rey inspired fantasy, riding in the passenger’s seat of the piece of shit, cheap car Johnny’s had since high school. It’s only because I’m the only other one in the car for once. It’s only because Johnny is my best friend’s older brother, only because he was the sweetheart of our entire high school when I was just a freshman. It’s because he’s back from college—looking worn and rugged in a way that matures him and somehow makes him more handsome—and I’m freshly seventeen, boasting my latest growth spurt that still leaves me delicate so much smaller than him. It’s just the way the late, LA sun bleeds through the windows and settles around us.

In reality it’s nothing, though. I’m only sitting pretty in the passenger’s seat next to him because Jeno (his brother, my best friend) got a ride with his teammates after his baseball game. I’m only getting In n Out with him while the radio plays a muted version of something that played at my junior prom weeks ago. He’s only got his hand resting on my thigh because he’s always been intimate in that annoyingly casual, American way. The way his one, single hand could nearly wrap around my entire thigh probably passes right by him but my mind has never been able to stray from the fact that his body eclipses mine in every way. And with the way the line is moving, we’ll be out of here and back at his house before the sun even sets and nothing will really happen. We’ll come home with grease-stained bags and half-drunk milkshakes and my mind will still be filled with the image of his hand casually on my thigh and he’ll probably still be thinking about Jeno’s game.

Johnny’s making small talk with me—catching up, I guess—asking me about soccer in the spring and swimming in the summer. He’s always been too kind, more than accommodating, because I’ve always been here with him. I was his little brother’s best friend and I had been since I moved out here, stumbling through subpar English back in middle school. He and Jeno were new too, transplants from Chicago and adjusting a lot easier. He was that impossible to avoid kind of friendly and charismatic, always having the solution to all your problems, the most comforting smile, the most sincere words. He was easy to fall for. I just think I fell the hardest—tripping over my unpredictable, still growing, eleven or twelve year old body right into his lap. And I guess I never managed to pick myself back up.

He laughs at something I said about Jeno or maybe one of my soccer teammates, the conversation is wiped from my brain once his comforting smile breaks into a genuine laugh. It changes his posture so he’s more loose, relaxed, open. His shoulders fall back so I can really see how broad his chest is and his legs fall open. And I know it’s a small car but all I can think about is crawling between his legs in the front seat and popping the button of his jeans open. When I’m being more realistic with my fantasies Johnny’s impossibly sweet, cradling my head in his hands and cooing at me, calling me “babydoll” and when the fantasy is just a fantasy he isn’t so sweet. Both fantasy-fantasy Johnny and real-fantasy Johnny have been it for me since middle school, though. He’s been the star of every wet dream, the only reoccurring fantasy, the only thing that makes me squirm and whine in bed at night. He was _it_.

Johnny doesn’t talk much about college. It’s fine. I’ve almost choked down the jealousy from watching him catch everyone’s eye in high school by now. I don’t need any fresh reminders. I wouldn’t retain any advice he gave me anyway, not with the sun still glittering in his eyes and making his skin glow. And it was different now. I wasn’t a stumbling and unsure baby deer anymore—talking to him in a mixture of Korean and English because he was one of the only people in the world I knew would understand it, sitting in the crowd of every volleyball game with mouth hanging open in awe every time he spiked the ball into the ground. My English was better now, flawless even, and I could make plays in soccer games that left other people’s mouths hanging open. I knew I wasn’t going to be prom king like he was but I was still a force to be reckoned with. When I was fourteen sometimes Johnny would drive me home instead of my own brother or my parents and without Jeno our conversations easily screeched to a halt because he was just so good at getting me tongue-tied. When Johnny leans out the window to catch a stagnant breeze in the late evening heat I wonder if he likes the confidence on me or the blushing, doe-eyed innocence better. But I already know I’ll play any part for even a miniscule _chance_ with him.

“You should text me more.” He jokes, elbowing me and I will take any excuse, any complex ritual to touch him. “I’m not too busy for you, y’know?” The sun dims in his eyes for once and I wonder if I somehow really hurt him, keeping my distance while there is literal distance between us. It’s partially because it’s just so hard to learn how to text someone you’ve always physically been right next to. It’s harder to translate a whole relationship into words than it is to translate languages. It’s partially because it’s easier to be so fucking _infatuated_ with him when I’m only left with retouched and slightly faded memories and fantasies.

“I never know what to text you about.” I laugh back. And I thought with newfound confidence, with new skills, with a better grasp on the language that it’d be easier. That it’d be easier to talk to him for once. And that it’d be harder. That it’d be harder not to lean across the center console and just kiss him, knowing that I’m desirable now. But it’s neither. It’s the same as it’s always been—the same as it was at twelve and thirteen and fourteen—like I haven’t grown at all, like nothing has changed. I’m still tongue-tied and stuttering, stunned out of my words more times than I can count. But the sun still dims in his eyes because of me. That’s different.

“Text me about anything, whatever you want.” He assures me. “You always got my jokes the best anyway.”

And he sweeps the rug out from under me, giving me the title of “best” anything in his eyes. I’m right back to being a blushing and doe-eyed kid in the passenger’s seat of his car. Just his younger brother’s best friend again. The Lana del Rey fantasy slips away while the car radio plays something by Maroon 5.

The moment shatters when Johnny leans out of the car window to grab our food. Our skin never touches when he hands the bag over to me but the proximity still burns. He takes a sip of my chocolate milkshake before handing it to me and taking a sip of his strawberry one. I refrain from telling him that there was a better way for us to make neapolitan. But the image is clear in my mind—leaning over the center console and pressing our mouths together, feeling the slight coldness of his tongue, the lingering taste of strawberry. It makes me tighten my grip on my milkshake like that’ll do anything about my frayed self-control.

My infatuation seems pitiful even to myself sometimes. He’s had a chokehold on my heart for longer than I’ve been comfortable calling LA home, longer than I’ve been comfortable _pronouncing_ “Los Angeles” and all I’ve done since is _choke_ on it. All I’ve done is get lost in fantasies, compare everyone who ever looked at me with interest to a skewed version of him that never existed. And he’s never even done anything for real that should trip me up like this. He’s never held me while I cried, he’s never chased away my bullies (not that I had any here), he never teased me about my crushes, he never even _asked_ about my crushes. He didn’t know anything about me that Jeno didn’t, that my _parents_ didn’t, that my own brother didn’t. But I still held all these meaningless, uninteresting moments with him so tight to my chest. I created something with parts of him that maybe had nothing to do with him. Maybe I never even really liked him genuinely. Maybe it was all overblown infatuation, feeding into a fantasy he fit so perfectly. It wasn’t like getting into his pants now would somehow retroactively make me his prom queen.

“What happened?” He laughs with me again, like he’s getting at an inside joke between us.

“With what?” I answer dumbly.

“You used to only get vanilla with me. When’d you start liking chocolate?”

It was true. I was more adventurous at Cold Stone or Baskin Robbins , would always opt for cherry vanilla or mint chocolate chip or try the seasonal flavors. But when it was just the standards I always opted for vanilla. It wasn’t until probably sophomore year that my swimming team fucked up my In n Out order and I got stuck with chocolate instead. It wasn’t a big deal to me because it turns out that all In n Out shakes taste the same (good) and it wasn’t a big deal to me now. But it was something Johnny remembered. “While you were gone, I guess.”

He hums noncommittally, looking out the window like he’s really thinking. “I guess a lot of things changed while I was gone.” He lets his eyes land on me for barely a moment. “You grew up a lot.” The expression in his eyes in unreadable but it sends a hot flash tearing through my whole body and strangles my breath until it comes out as a little gasp.

The summer I turned thirteen, my parents let me go on a weekend trip with Jeno and his family to Malibu. It wasn’t really a long drive, shoved in the back between Jeno and Johnny because I was still the smallest out of all of us, but car rides always made me sleepy. And somewhere between trees and the California coast I dozed off and woke up with face shoved into someone’s neck—warm and comforting, smelling like some brand name cologne, classic and expensive. The clean, white T-shirt collar dangerously close to my mouth tells me it’s Johnny. It’s _Johnny_. I spent more than half the ride with my face buried in the crook of his neck and he just let me stay there. He’s still awake, I can tell, watched him scroll through twitter with my eyes barely cracked open. And he just let me stay there. He doesn’t say anything when he realizes that I’m awake, just smiles down at me.

I sit rigidly with my hands to myself the entire ride. I’m still twelve and it’s still just puppy love, just a dumb little kid crush. And anything can leave my heart racing and butterflies in my stomach. But I hold it tight to my heart until it becomes something much deeper. I have a lot of time to hold it to my heart, being squashed against Jeno for the rest of the trip—sharing a bed with him, always eating with him, always wandering off with him. Except for one time I get out of the hotel pool without him to get some soft-serve ice cream from the lobby and when I come back to eat it, Johnny is seated in a pool chair with an ice cream of our own. We don’t say anything—at least, not really—as we both watch Jeno swim. It’s a memory that takes a backseat to me falling asleep on his shoulder. But my soft-serve that day was vanilla. My ice cream that whole trip was vanilla.

It’s not like I thought he never paid attention to me at all throughout the years. He always knew what sports I was taking and how the teams were doing. He always knew my homeroom teacher and would joke around with me about teachers he remembered having at school. He was just as attentive and warm as he was kind. I just held these memories in a different place, valued them differently. _I_ knew Johnny always chose fruit-flavored shakes and that his ice cream that entire trip was vanilla-chocolate swirl. It’s different for him to think about the little things with me though, different for him to _remember_.

“Why don’t we take the scenic route home?” He asks, pulling out of the parking lot. The “scenic route” just avoids the highway and wraps around a park but it’s something. “Eat some fries.” He encourages. “You know how bad they are cold.”

I shove one, limp fry into my mouth. “What about Jeno?” I ask without thinking. I’m not really thinking about Jeno, not really worried about his fries or his burger. He might’ve gotten dinner with his team for all we know, honestly.

“He’ll live.” Johnny laughs. “I mean, we got him food. He should be grateful.” The sun’s no longer lighting up his best angle but his smile more than makes up for it.

“What about you?” I _am_ thinking about him. I’m always thinking about him.

“I’m fine.” He rethinks his decision a second later, “Actually, just hand me some fries.” But when he asks, he’s in the middle of a turn, both hands firmly on the wheel. “Ah,” he requests, opening his mouth cutely. And if I were creating the fantasy I’d be in his position. But I’m not creating anything here, it’s just happening.

When I put the fries in his mouth my fingers brush his lip. It’s not purposeful, it’s not sexy, it’s just a _brush_. But I know it’s something I’ll lock up close to my heart for years to come. It’s something I’ll weave into rushed fantasies in the shower. I’m just not there yet. It’s not a fantasy yet. I haven’t gotten a chance to twist it away from reality. The feeling of his skin is still burning in my touch memory. It’s still real. And I can take in the way he focuses on the road, not on me. The way the sun backlights him so I can see the creases around his mouth, the tiredness in his eyes, the crumbs on his pristine white t-shirt. It’s not a fantasy yet.

“Thanks.” He murmurs, still barely paying attention to me. “Oh,” he exclaims, turning up the radio from a muted hum in the background, “they haven’t played this since I was in high school.” It’s playing “Summertime Sadness.” Lana del Rey. Huh.

The road straightens out and Johnny takes one hand off the wheel and puts it back on my thigh. It’s comforting. It’s safe. He’s just resting his hand there. But it feels higher than before, more intimate somehow. I might just be imagining it. I was notorious for imagining things where Johnny was involved. But everything else was still happening for real in real time for once. I was living in the moment _with_ him for once. The feeling of his lips still stung on my fingertips and his hand burned through my shorts into my skin. The shadows of passing trees still sped over us, the sun kept setting.

The world was still spinning and I hadn’t had the time to turn this into a fantasy yet. I haven’t had the time to twist Johnny into someone who would kiss me tender or hard yet because he isn’t someone who would kiss me at all. He wouldn’t make me his prom queen. He wouldn’t park in some dark parking lot and drag me into his lap in the backseat. He wouldn’t let me crawl between his legs. But maybe he _would_ put his hand just a little too high on my thigh.

Johnny’s eyes flick over to me just as a ray of sun settles over my eyelashes, blinding me momentarily. And I’ll never know what expression he has. It’s okay, though, because eventually I’ll have to get out of the car. The song will end. The sun will set. The fries will get cold. And I can fill in whatever expression I want then. For right now, I keep the ghost of his touch burning in my memory as real as I can keep it. His hand is still on my thigh for real, in real time. Lana del Rey still plays over the radio in real time. I’m still here, experiencing it all in real time.

**Author's Note:**

> never ever planned on writing anything for nct tbh but there maybe could be a sequel to this if you guys are interested  
> EDIT: first, thank you guys so much for all your feedback! second, due to popular demand the sequel is in the works now  
> [tumblr](angelinmyheartt.tumblr.com) [cc](https://curiouscat.me/Nitzer)


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